Staci Bernard Roth's Thoughts on Words and the World

It’s been over a month since the 1145th anniversary of his coronation, but Alfred the Great is on my mind. It’s probably because my semester has just ended, and I’ve been reflecting on the past school year. I welcome any wisdom that can help me reflect, and where better to look for wisdom than in the rule of King Alfred?

According to Asser, Alfred possessed a “sapientiae desiderium” (“desire for wisdom”*), particularly in the “liberalem . . . artem” (“liberal artes”**). His mother, Osburh, encouraged his love of learning when she showed a book to Alfred and his brothers and promised it to whichever son could memorize it first. Alfred, the youngest, won. Years later, he passed down this tradition of learning by providing teachers for his own children and “omnibus pene totius regionis nobilibus infantibus et etiam multis ignobilibus” (“all the noble children in the entire region, and also many common ones”). Making education available to “common” children anticipates much later movements toward universal education.

The young Anglo-Saxon students “utriusque linguae libri, Latinae scilicet et Saxonicae” (“read books in both languages, namely Latin and Saxon [English]”). Alfred was painfully aware of how important both Latin and English were. Although he had read English from a young age, Latin came only later and with the help of “magistros” (“experts”) from “ultra mare” (“beyond the sea”)–whom he rewarded with “magna potestate” (“great power”)–as well as, ultimately, “divino instinctu” (“divine inspiration”).

He knew that he was not alone in his ignorance of Latin. In the preface to his translation of Pope Gregory’s Regula Pastoralis (Pastoral Rule, known more commonly as Pastoral Care), he famously wrote, “SwæclæneheowæsoðfeallenuonAngelcynneðætswiðefeawawæronbehionanHumbreðe ðiora ðeningacuðen understondanonEnglisc,oððefurðumanærendgewritofLædeneonEngliscareccean;ondicweneðættenohtmonigebegiondan Humbre næren” (“So thoroughly had it [learning] declined in England that there were very few on this side of the Humber who could understand their divine services in English, or even translate a written letter from Latin to English; and I think that there were not many beyond the Humber”***). After this demonstration of England’s state of educational disrepair, Alfred points out the dangers of an educational and religious system that relies on a little-known language to transmit knowledge and enjoins the reader to

“[g]eðenchwelc witu usða becomonforðisse worulde,ða ða wehitnohwæðer ne selfe ne lufodon ne eacoðrum monnum nelefdon” (“remember that punishment then befell us in this world, when we neither loved it [learning] ourselves nor passed it down to other men”). The “punishment” to which Alfred refers is undoubtedly the Viking attacks in which “hit eallforhergodwæreondforbærned” (“it all was ravaged and burned”) and before which “ða ciricean giondeallAngelcynnstodonmaðmaondbocagefylda” (“the churches throughout all England stood filled with treasures and books”). Alfred points out that people had received “lytlefiorme“ (“little benefit”) from those books, though, because the books “næron onhiora agen geðiodeawritene” (“were not written in their own language”). The suggestion is, of course, that the inability to read and the ignorance it fostered were responsible for decades of suffering at the Vikings’ hands.

Although today most would not blame the Viking invasions on God’s anger at the state of education in Anglo-Saxon England, we can still admire Alfred’s prescience and intellect. His life and career reveal that learning was no less important than–and inexorably connected to–other aspects of kingship and citizenship, including military savvy and prowess. This lesson, certainly, is as valuable today as it was in the ninth century.

The most recent issue of Harpers Magazine includes part of an interview George Saunder conducted with Patrick Dacey. In it Dacey discusses “edginess,” the quality that would leave him dissatisfied with writing a lovely if “corny” scene and motivate him to add something ironic or snarky or awful. He suggests that this approach prevents writers from seeing “the spiritual, the ineffable, the earnest, the mysterious” and therefore limits our view of the human condition. As I catch up on my reading this summer, I’ll have to see if Dacey’s words ring true. What do you think?

Accompanying V. S. Naipul’s provocative assertions about women writers, The Guardian published a quiz to determine whether people could determine the sex of a writer. I got an embarrassing 5 out of 10 and an admonition that I “clearly need to read more works by men.” How did you do?

I’m used to having nightmares, so I could not have predicted the amazingness of last night’s dream. In it I was thinking about the unity debate surrounding Sir Thomas Malory’s Morte Darthur, the fifteenth-century subject of my 1996 doctoral dissertation. The Morte is a collection of stories about King Arthur and his knights. and critics have long debated whether the collection is a unified book or simply a collection of tales and even whether our ideas of unity would have meant anything to Malory. In my dream, I drew a parallel between Malory’s sprawling narrative and medieval visual art–art created before the development of perspective credited to Renaissance artists–much as John Leyerle saw the interlace patterns of Anglo-Saxon art in Beowulf. When I woke up, I was so excited that I raced downstairs, grabbed Charles Moorman’s The Book of Kyng Arthur and James W. Spisak’s Studies in Malory, and jumped onto Google Books. Will anything come of this? I don’t know, but I’m still excited about the prospect, which should tell you something.